Violent Delights
by Her sister's keeper
Summary: As a feud drags on and the circumstances become desperate, Rey Kenobi and Ben Solo find the future of their city, their families and themselves resting squarely on the other's shoulders. They have been conditioned to hate each other for their name alone, but what does one do when their sworn enemy can make them forget their own name? (Romeo and Juliet AU)
1. Chapter 1

Verona was quiet for once. Phasma Kenobi supposed that it was a miracle that there was peace for the moment, watching how the sky shifted from its nightly blue into a muted purple, the dim light touching the tops of the grand buildings, trickling down to the stone paved streets. Even though her vantage point was only from the grand house's kitchen, the heavy wood pushed open to allow a breeze to run across her neck, wake her up for her day's errands, the sight was just as glorious as any to be seen from the family home's highest point, its stone walls high and just as magnificent as the basilica at the cathedral of San Zeno.

Behind her, a servant lit the cooking fire for the day, and there were whispers of conversation as a pair of cooks began kneading the dough for today's bread, wiping their flour covered hands on their heavy skirts, tugging at their aprons nervously. The noblewoman didn't look away from the sunrise, even as greetings were murmured to her, even as her old retired nurse, now a cook, clucked at her and her breeches, the clothes not suited for a lady. It didn't matter, for there were more pressing things on her mind. There was business negotiations for her to handle, a party to plan, but still, there was a more pressing issue that lingered on her mind, no matter the day, no matter how her schedule changed.

Phasma always watched the sun rise as if it would be her last one, knowing that there was a small chance of that becoming true, with the feud between her family and another, the Solos. The thought once made her seize in fear, but that had been long ago when she was just a girl. Now, there was only a bitterness, a perpetual feeling of annoyance that only needed a small spark to become a rage. Her childhood had been defined by fear, by resentment, by anger that she was taught by her granduncle, for the grudge between the families, by now, was learned.

She could have married into another family, escape the feud that way. She couldn't remember the exact reason why there was still fighting—the original argument had been at least forty years ago, and there were so many stories as to how it started. However, the woman was not tired of fighting, her shoulders broad, her skill with the blade renowned, despite it going against tradition. Besides, she couldn't leave her family—not when her grand uncle was so old and her little cousin unmarried still. She stayed for family, and for that reason did the fear of dying still thrum in the back of her skull. For the moment, though, Phasma watched the sky.

Soon, it would fade into pink and then into orange as the sun rose, and the woman sighed, the sword heavy at her side reminding her that discord could also rise with it. There was a shuffle of fabric behind her, odd little gasps of "My lady," and now there was a hand on her arm and bright hazel eyes looking up at her.

"Good morning, cousin." Despite herself, despite her dark mood, Phasma allowed her lips to quirk into a half smile, running a hand through her hair as she stepped away from the door, into the courtyard before them, turning to glance at her relative. She was dressed more fanciful than she had been told to be, and so the older woman sighed again, albeit in good nature.

"Rey, you're late." The young lady's brow furrowed, her mouth twisting up in a frown. Phasma knew that she would argue, but she didn't mind—the little maid was her closest friend, her motivation for staying, the only one worth talking to in the Kenobi household at times.

"I am not. It's barely daylight. The merchants our lord wants you to meet with must wait for you. My tardiness is no matter." There was a sheepish smile now as she stepped out to join her taller cousin, the grin widening with mischief. "Besides, Jessica and Rose gave me such scolding when I tried to dress as you told me to. They insisted on dressing me this morning. I tried to tell them that I'd rather wear a peasant dress or breeches like yours, but you _know_ how much they adore playing dress up."

Phasma hummed at her, the sound making Rey smile as they set off, their soft shoes still making solid thuds against the street's stones. The market wasn't too far of a walk, and their pace was brisk, no one daring to bother them, not when one had a sword by her side and the other wore the colors of the Kenobi seal, the dark green standing out against the gold embroidery of the dress. It didn't take them long to be in the thick of the gathering crowd, the early morning hours not hindering business.

The market was already busy when they reached the center of the city's square, vendors setting up their wares and calling out their prices. The merchants she was supposed to meet with seemed to be late, and so Phasma allowed herself to wander with her cousin, watching the small un-calloused hands sweep over bolts of fabric, the materials soft and rich. It reminded her of the overly luxurious dress that Rey's maids had dressed her in, and she sighed, leaning close now.

"Your maids are so troublesome, cousin." They bumped shoulders as the younger girl laughed, tugging at her skirt, trying to avoid the mud and general filth of the streets as they moved down the row of vendors, onto the stall where spices were piled up, the combining scents pungent and almost sweet. "You look more ready for a wedding than a trip to the market."

"At least they're not spies, like your last ladies-in-waiting, coz." Phasma snorted at her, nudging her again a bit harder, coaxing another laugh as they drifted over to a woman who sold jewelry, the pieces ranging from delicate and thin to heavy and grand, all of them beautiful.

"Indeed. At least now I have a personal grudge with the Solos." She paused, trying to remain solemn as Rey lifted an eyebrow, waiting for an explanation. "Thanks to them and their little spies, I've had to learn to dress myself. How inconvenient."

"Oh, psh! You would have found another reason to begrudge them, spies or no spies."

"You give them too much credit, Rey. I don't need to find another reason when their existence is enough." Phasma raised her eyebrows as Rey simply shrugged, glancing away, her smile fleeing now, her look solemn.

"I've never met someone I haven't liked—"

"You've never met a Solo." Rey's look was fierce at the correction, the glare almost out of character even as it dissipated and she sighed.

"And as I've never met a Solo, I am willing to give them the benefit of the doubt." Her cousin harrumphed at her, fixing her with a gaze that was almost indistinguishable in its sternness, a bit of other sentiment peeking through before she jerked her head away.

"I should go find those merchants. They should not be so late." Phasma paused, considering her cousin again, her eyes downcast. "Remember, coz—your grandfather will be joining us later, after my meeting with the merchants. Please, for the love of God, stay close and do not get into trouble. He will never let you out of his sight if you get into mischief."

There was a feeble mumble from the younger lady, nothing intelligible, but she did not have the time to ask for more. Instead, Phasma turned and walked off, frame towering over the other market goers.

Rey turned back to the jewelry, let her fingers trace a few hairpins encrusted with diamonds, almost celestial in their look. She could feel her lip tremble and she willed that emotion away. This is why she was called sensitive. This is why her family didn't take her words into account.

She didn't like how Phasma looked at her, as if pitying her, as if she was a child who didn't understand. True, she was only eighteen, two full decades younger than her kinswoman. True, Phasma had been in many skirmishes with the Solo family, especially in her younger days, when the imposing woman still wore dresses and was courted. She had seen what the Solo family could do, what destruction that had been brought from their hands.

That being said, Rey couldn't find it in her heart to blindly hate a family who she had never talked to. It seemed foolish to waste the energy on such a trivial matter as a disagreement, especially when the world was expanding every day. She sighed, brushing her hair away from her face, cursing herself for not letting Jessica braid it before she left.

"Pardon me, my lady?" The voice was gentle, the entreaty polite, but still the noblewoman flinched, pulling her hand away from the jewelry as if it burned her, heart pounding in her ears. Rey jerked her face up, staring up into the face of a man, his skin dark, his eyes kind, smile apologetic.

"Pardon my boldness, but I know nothing—absolutely nothing—about jewelry, and I'm searching for a piece that will impress a lady." His eyes were hopeful as he grinned at her, and despite her wariness, she felt herself soften.

"Is it for family? Or your betrothed?" His head shake was quick, the accompanying laughter nervous. Rey raised an eyebrow at him, pursing her lips as she looked him up and down, trying to decide if his initial story was to be believed.

His clothes were well made, his maroon doublet soft and buttoned, his shoes and breeches clean, not dirt-covered like a servant would be. He had manners, which was possibly more important—he wasn't just some rogue attempting to make sport of her, though it wouldn't have surprised her if he was. It wouldn't be the first time that a man had looked past her rich clothes and family crest and only saw a maid who he could harass. She glanced away from the man, noting how Phasma was still within sight and that if she needed to, she could run to her.

Rey doubted that she would have to, turning back to the struggling man, his smile still contrite, his manner still nervous. "Why don't I point out a few pieces that I like, and you can possibly get an idea that way? I'm sure that anything that you buy for her will be appreciated." The look he gave her was grateful, and she couldn't help but grin at him. He seemed to be harmless enough, and so she allowed him to fall in beside her.

There was nothing for her to fear today, she was sure. Without a Solo in sight, the lady relaxed, thinking on nothing but the sun, which hung over her too brightly, like an ill omen.


	2. Chapter 2

"What is your name?" The question was gentle, and Rey wondered how long he had waited to ask, her fingers tracing a small brooch, trying to remember if this was the fourth or fifth piece she had recommended and if he had picked one already. She plucked it up, passing it to him to look over.

"Rey. What is yours?" She knew that Phasma would surely scold her later for talking to this odd man, but she couldn't find it in herself to care—it was exciting, talking to someone outside of her family, especially a man. Her grandfather kept her practically hidden, insisting that it was for the best, that it'd keep her safe.

The man's face brightened at her question and he grinned as he accepted the brooch, nodding serenely to himself. "My name is Finn. It's a pleasure to meet you, Lady Rey." He glanced back at the jewelry in his hand, look solemn as he turned it over, trying to inspect it thoroughly. Rey felt her curiosity stir once more, watching him hem and haw over the brooch as if his decision would change his life.

"Who is the jewelry for?" The question came out before she could rein it in, the young noblewoman all but slapping a hand over her mouth in mortification as Finn looked up, a bit startled. But then there was that smile again, that nervous laughter, and he turned away for a moment, handing the vendor a few coins, seemingly having made up his mind.

"It is a bit, ah, odd to explain. You see, it's not quite for a lady—" Suddenly there was a yell, a commotion in the center of the crowded square, and a man burst from the crowd, his olive skin flushed with laughter and effort as he panted for air, the satchel at his side hitting his hip as he ran. His eyes brightened considerably as his eyes found the swarthy man at Rey's side, and with a few short strides, he joined them, clapping a hand down on the other man's shoulder.

"Finn! There you are!" He lowered his voice, muttering quickly now, almost darkly, his sunny mood gone for the moment. "I couldn't find a maid able to write the note. Well, in faith, I found several maids who could write, but none with the humor to write it. I was slapped by one for my impudence."

Rey could feel her eyebrows lift, smirking now as she looked at her companion and then his friend. Indeed, there was a red welt on the newcomer's cheek, his dark curls making the mark that much more noticeable. So they are rogues, but well off ones. She huffed, amused, fixing Finn with an exasperated look, her humor making it softer.

The other man didn't seem to take notice, muttering to himself, even as his friend nudged him. He paused now, glancing at Finn's stricken and embarrassed face. "What?"

Finn cleared his throat, forced a smile as he turned to the girl, sweeping an arm out towards his friend. "Poe, this is Lady Rey. Lady Rey, this is Poe Dameron, pain in the side and—"

"And nephew to the prince. My lord." Despite the oddness of the situation, Rey dropped into a curtsey, averting her eyes. Of course—the first day Phasma allows her to come to market with her is the day she meets the prince. There was a sly thought that tugged at her lips with amusement, the lady hoping she wouldn't laugh. _Suddenly, I'm not overdressed for market, am I, coz?_

"Please, please, don't bow. I'm a rascal compared to my uncle." There were hands on hers pulling her upright, the man's grin charming and dimpled, his eyes interested as he looked her over. "I hope Finn wasn't bothering you. I know him to be a gentleman, though any man would lose their head and their manners from your beauty."

Rey allowed her eyes to roll, her cheeks flushing in pleasure regardless. She knew that he was only trying to be polite, to be charming, and despite herself, she had to admit that it was working. Finn coughed again, and it seemed to pull her out of the compliment's moment, her eyes returning to him.

"The lady was helping me pick out the jewelry for your…ah… gift." Finn stroked his chin, exchanging a glance with Poe that seemed to be an entire conversation, quiet, thoughtful, secret.

"Did she?" There was that interest again, and the young royal leaned in close, Rey pulling back despite herself. "My lady, can you write?"

"Aye, if I know the language and the letters." There was a worried, almost incredulous look from the two men, and she couldn't help but laugh at their faces. "Yes, I can write."

Poe brightened instantly, reaching for his satchel and shoving a hand within, presumably to find parchment and a quill. He paused for a moment, his smile sheepish. "I forget myself. You must wonder what we want you to write…especially since other women refused."

"That is true." Rey faltered, eyes darting away and searching for her cousin. _She must have wandered off with those merchants._ She turned back to the men, smiling despite the gnawing feeling in her stomach. "What impudent thing do you wish me to write?"

"Nothing too impudent…more so cruel." Poe plucked up the brooch from Finn's offering hand, nodding contently before looking back at Rey. "Finn has a kinsman who is hopelessly in love with a noblewoman who, needless to say, does not return his affections. He's insufferable for her, so we decided to provide a little bit of relief and send him a love note and token. Perhaps from her, perhaps from a mystery woman." He waggled his dark brows at her, his smile contagious, a grin settling on Rey's cheeks unbidden.

"I see. And who is the lady your kinsman is in love with, Finn?" The man laughed despite himself at the question, running a hand through his hair.

"Perhaps you've heard of Lady Bazine Netal?" The men watched Rey's lips pucker and her brow furrow as she sighed. "I'll take that as a yes." There was amusement tinging the words and the lady couldn't help but throw her hands up even as she smiled still.

"She is a cousin of mine. My condolences for your kinsman—Bazine is a fickle, harsh woman. Even if he was an Adonis, your man could never sway her to love." She took a breath, considered the parchment Poe had set before her absentmindedly, plucking up the quill and dabbing it in the little inkpot he had set beside the sheaf.

"It would be better for your poor man if the note was from a mystery woman. In truth, I have never written a love note—I've never been in love—but to make up for Bazine, I shall try." The two men exhaled with relief as the girl leaned forward, careful not to drip extra ink on the page as she formed the first word, and then the next.

She didn't know if she wrote of love well, and she wondered why she had agreed to write the note. Perhaps it was because Rey knew how cruel her cousin could be—vain, cold and generally dismissive of anyone who dared to try breaching her walls. She knew that it was mostly because of the feud, that her family connections made it necessary to keep her guard up, but it made her harsh. Rey supposed she was grateful that she had yet to experience love—her family would always make things difficult, and it was better to be unattached, if not for her heart, then for whoever fell in love with her.

Her handwriting was swooping and graceful, and she nearly lost herself in the motions of writing, watching the black ink bloom into an epistle worthy for any suitor. Too quickly, she found herself at the bottom and she faltered again, wondering what to call herself. What did lovers call themselves? What did _secret_ lovers call themselves? Rey wanted to wonder more, but she could feel the nervousness rolling from her two acquaintances as she paused, and so she simply left her initials. _R.K._

She supposed it was best that there was no wax to drip beside her signature like she so often saw her grandfather do at the end of letters. She ran a finger across her ring, the little family crest pressing into her skin as it would have pressed into the wax, giving away her identity.

This experience oddly thrilled her, excitement blooming in her chest and racing to her fingers and toes, up to her cheeks, leaving a tingling flush in its wake. She wondered for a moment what the man's reaction would be to seeing her letter, but she shook the thought away, pushing her hair back once more. It didn't matter, for she would probably never meet him, even if the thought of possibly meeting him filled her with delicious dread, her cheeks flushing once more.

"There you are, my good sirs!" Poe was grinning at her again, reaching for her hand so he could bring it to his lips in thanks. Finn was smiling as well, his eyes roaming over the letter, inspecting it just as he had the brooch. Suddenly, his face changed, his eyes wide, his lips trembling.

"Rey, who is your family?" In an instance, the other man was looking at her curiously, and Rey could feel herself pale, her mouth barely opening before a voice ripped through the marketplace.

" _Rey!"_ The girl whirled around, eyes seizing Phasma who was pushing past commoners and vendors alike, her face a terrifying mixture of concern and rage. There was a clattering behind her now, and she looked back at her new friends, eyes widening and a scream welling in her throat at the sight of their swords, drawn and glinting in the mid morning light.

" _Get away from her, you Solo dogs!"_ In that moment, her cousin's rage made sense, and a strangled cry fell unbidden from her lips. Rey was sure that it no longer mattered to the men beside her that she had treated them kindly—not know that they confirmation of her family line, and she of theirs. Still, she couldn't find it in her to step away, letting herself stay in Phasma's wrathful path as if she was a shield, nothing more.

She didn't have a chance to call for peace, not as Finn's hand found her arm and yanked her back, not as Poe charged at Phasma with a yell, blades clanging as she parried his blow. Rey felt the crush of people around her as merchants abandoned their stalls, taking their customers with them as they fled.

"Stop! Please stop!"

"Put up your weapons, I beg you!" Finn's words mixed with hers, their pleas unheeded as a pair of servants launched themselves at each other, swords drawn and crying for a second man to back them up. There seemed to be men swarming for a fight now, and Rey felt fear seize up in her throat as Phasma fixed her companion with a sneer, spitting at the words.

"My lord, you beg for peace and yet you hold my cousin captive? Your rudeness is expected but this boldness? Unforgivable!" She made to lunge but Poe was quicker, blocking her path, shouting at Finn to run.

The man did, although blindly and carelessly, his grip tightening on Rey's arm instead of loosening. He pulled her under one of the grand archways, away from the open air of the market, into shadows. She could still hear the shouting, could hear cheering as there was a pounding of horse hooves, exclamations of "Lord Solo!" Without Phasma or any of their hired hands in sight, she was sure she would die here, at the hand of her "friend". She forced herself not to think of it, only of living as she attempted to wrench her hand away, her voice hoarse from tears.

"Someone will come looking for me soon if you don't let me go. Do you wish to die?" She hated how ugly the words were, even when spoken with concern and confusion, the man pulling her along, unhearing in his haste. He stopped suddenly, and she collided with his shoulder, crying out with the abruptness of it all.

"Let her go, young sir." The words were cool, the voice familiar, and the girl could've sobbed with the sound of it, calling out instead:

"Grandfather!"

The Kenobi patriarch looked unsurprised at the chaos just beyond them in the square, his pale blue eyes instead settling on the man who had his granddaughter by the arm. His sword was drawn, his face resigned as if he knew that this could only end in blood. Instead, Finn seemed to relax more, his grip on Rey loosening and he even pushed her forward, towards the old man.

If old Ben was surprised, the look was imperceptible, maybe a slightly raised eyebrow at most. The young man shrugged, almost apologetic as he resheathed his sword, avoiding Rey's eyes. "I do not wish to fight you, good sir. I only wished to get the lady out of danger. I know how wild these fights can get."

"Thank you." Lord Kenobi still watched Finn warily, his voice faint, sword still in hand. It was only when the younger man turned away, solemn nodding at Rey, whose lips stiffly echoing her grandfather's words, before darting off, back into the fray, did the old man pull the girl towards him, a sob muffling itself in her hair.

"I was so sure I was going to lose you, Starlight." If she had expected anger, it did not come, her grandfather instead pulling back to inspect her face, sighing with relief at how her face was only pale, not bloody, how she was only shaken. He chuckled at her wide eyes, clucking his tongue. "This is why I don't want you to leave my sight—you always seem to try and befriend trouble."

"Forgive me, my lord." He hushed her, his hand tight around hers as he peered out into the square. His words were soft, unhurried even as he nudged her forward now, his grip on her hand urging her to move faster, the fighting still thick, wrath clouding the air like a noxious fume.

"There is nothing to be only ones who have done wrong are those villainous Solos. Worry not."

"Villains, are we? Turn, Kenobi. Look upon your death."The words were gruff, almost a growl, the timbre low. It reminded Rey of rumbling thunder, and she forced herself to remain still, her legs pushing her to flee. Despite her best judgment, she looked behind them, the tip of a saber pointed at her grandfather's back.

"Solo." With a sweeping hand, the old man pushed the girl behind him and turned as well, leveling a gaze at his enemy.

Lord Solo's face reminded Rey of a storm roughened stone, craggy and stubbled, almost savage compared to her grandfather's smooth cheeks, his soft silver beard. This was a man who had been a soldier, who believed in solving things with action, his sword at the ready in his hand, knuckles white with his grip. The rival lord's dark eyes narrowed to slits, opening his mouth to speak again, but Lord Kenobi waved the impending words off, almost impatient with his own.

"I do not wish to fight with you today. Your kinsman spared my Rey's life-allow me to return that kindness and spare you." Rey watched the other man's face carefully, as if he'd give away some pity, if his face would soften as he glanced at her, studying her as well. She hoped for gratitude, for them to be allowed to pass, but instead there was only a laugh before the man spat at her grandfather's feet.

"It was your niece that started this brawl, villain. Not any of mine. Why should I spare you, old man?"

There was a thundering of hooves behind them, the cries of guards to hold their peace and not raise their hand against another man. Trumpets blared, declaring the arrival of a royal, and the quiet answer to the question that still hung in the air nearly went unheard. But then it was still, and the words seemed to echo in the silence:

"Because the Prince will not spare you if you raise a hand against my family."

The words were cool, measured, too calm for her pounding heart as Rey felt the words escape her lips, her eyes harsh as she stared at the man. She realized what she had just done-talking back to not only a man but the man who hated her for just her name and could kill her where she stood. At the least, she expected a glare, a smack, a command to _be quiet, girl_ spoken through gritted teeth. She lowered her head, waiting for a blow, the slow breathing of the rival lord too loud, too rhythmic as she waited to be rebuked, for some small act of vengeance, even for her grandfather to be ran through for her impertinence.

Instead, the man laughed again, this time lower, softer, out of actual amusement instead of sarcasm. In an instant, his hand was under her chin, his grip pinching, his stare hard as he studied her, smiling all the while. "Cheeky girl, isn't she, Kenobi?"

"Let her go, Lord Solo."

All eyes snapped up at the voice, and Rey felt the air escape her lungs with a _whoosh_ of gratitude as her gaze drifted up to the face of Prince Lor San Tekka. There was a fury building up behind his kind eyes, but he did not speak it as he gestured at Lord Solo to go on, to release the girl.

Solo's hands had just loosened on her face before Rey scampered back, behind her grandfather, dropping a curtsey to the royal Her thanks died on her lips as the crowned man waved it off with a slight smile, the look falling away as he fixed the two patriarchs with a glare.

"Thrice have you disrupted the peace of our city, over nothing more than a petty squabble!" The prince's face reddened, anger tinging his skin as he bellowed at the gathered crowd, the air thick with tension as he continued. "Thrice in the fortnight have you disturbed the livelihood of this fair city, and it ends now! If either you or your families dare start another brawl, I swear that your lives will pay the price."

He sighed, exhaustion flashing across his face, his eyes sorrowful as he looked across his subject as a father would to a naughty child, the wrinkles in his face almost deeper now, as if this feud was slowly draining his life. "For this time, though, put up your swords. Kenobi, come along with me. Solo, I shall send for you this afternoon. As for the rest, depart. We do not need your violence here."

Lord Kenobi turned to Rey, a new worry settling heavy on his brow even as he kissed her's, hand gentle on her shoulder. "Find Phasma and go back to the house. I shall be home as soon as I hear the prince's counsel. Hopefully I am not too late- I should have a guest waiting for me this afternoon, and after all this excitement, I don't want to make you entertain. You need your rest, my starlight."

"I will be fine, grandfather." Rey knew that was quite possibly a lie, the smile she forced on her lips stiff and merely polite, not reaching her eyes. "I do not mind keeping your guest company while you are away. It is an honor to meet with the prince...even if the circumstances are not as honorable."

She felt her voice fall with the thought, and so forced another smile, clutching her grandfather's hands. "No matter what, worry not about your guest. Go to the prince. I will be fine."

Rey wasn't sure if her grandfather heard her, his face dark as he absentmindedly patted her head and turned away, his tread slow, almost labored. She wouldn't dwell on it though, averting her eyes and letting herself drift into the marketplace again. Vendors were returning one by one, merchants grumbling to themselves.

A little up ahead, there was the jeweler that she had visited earlier, now struggling to gather all of her delicate pieces from her overturned table before they were crushed underfoot. Rey rushed forward, hiking up her dress and joining the poor woman on her knees, scooping up the precious metalwork, trying to dust it off the best she could. She could feel tears pricking her eyes, hot and angry, the jeweler's voice quiet in her ears as they worked.

"Don't cry, miss. It was not your fault."

Rey knew that it wasn't her intention, the words soft and sweet and kind, but it just made the tears well up all the more as she sniffled. It was her fault. It was all her name's fault. She couldn't deny it-her family name would only cause suffering for her and anyone who stood too close to her.

She thought back to the letter, cursing at herself with gritted teeth for her damned initials on the epistle written out of fun, out of idiocy. She could only hope that the men would throw the letter out, and if not, that the mystery man would never seek her out. She had hurt enough people today. Rey bent her head down and cried now, the jeweler averting her eyes and patting her shoulder now, saying now more.

When Phasma found her, she was covered in dirt, traces of it smeared across her face as she had tried to wipe her tears away, her eyes puffy, her soul discontent. She knew that there would be a scolding some other time, but for now, her cousin remained respectively quiet as they retraced their steps, following the path back to the grand house, both wishing to erase this morning from their lives.


	3. Chapter 3

Kylo Ren knew that it was improper for a Solo to avoid a fight, especially when his kinsmen were rushing for their swords, calling for their steeds, but as he ambled up the stairs back to the sunny garden roof, he couldn't feel anything but disinterest. The day was too beautiful to be sullied by violence, the man feeling his brow furrow with distaste at it all. His family and their men could be going about their business, enjoying the sunshine, the blooming flowers in the spring's faint coolness—but no, they had to be carried away to battle, and he was supposed to follow.

Not that he ever did anymore.

Oh, he knew how to go through the motions—look down and bellow back at some lesser ranked man who called to him to arms, to race down the stairs, feign preparation with the rest as he took up a sword, taking a moment too long to relish in the blade's brightness before calling at the men surrounding him to go without him, that he need only to get his steed, Silencer. He'd make to race off, but as soon as the hooves raced away, taking the storm of blood-begging yelling with it, he'd simply turn back and walk back to whichever part of the house he had been occupying for the moment when his day was so rudely interrupted.

When he was younger, when he could still go by Ben because he didn't know his enemy had the same name, he often dreamed of fighting. When he was still proud of his family and their name, wearing it with arrogance, he would needle and provoke a Kenobi to raise their blade against him just so he could prove himself brave, just so he could pretend to be valiant. _When you are but a boy,_ he thought, grimacing, _glory is so easily gained with a blade._

Kylo didn't want glory anymore, however. His feet sounded hollow on the last few stair steps, the sky open and wide for him to look as long as he pleased upon the little city of Verona. In the distance, the noon bells were knelling, and he wondered if the fight had ended for the day, if some young rascal had gotten his due today, or if they'd continue chasing that after glory.

Damn glory. What had glory ever done for him, besides bring him malice and scorn from about half the town, including the lady that his heart so desperately pined over? His shoulders shuddered with a sigh, and he moved to yank off his doublet, to find some happiness he could not find it on the world below in the sun's warmth when there was a gentle cough, and he paused.

"Mother, I did not see you there." His mother, the lady Leia Solo, glanced up at him from her sewing, lips pursing in a smirk that smoothed as he leaned over to kiss her cheek, a greeting they had never quite outgrown. She patted the space next to her on the divan the servants had dragged out there earlier, looking back down at her mending almost absentmindedly as he settled beside her and she replied.

"I snuck up here when I thought you had given up your spot." The corners of her eyes wrinkled wryly as she paused to prod at the ornate bun pinned. "But no, indeed, you're back, as your man Mitaka assured me."

He nodded slowly, wondering if his mother was ever going to chastise him for not running to join the fight. As if hearing his thoughts, she reached beside her and brought up a bound book and a small sliver of charcoal. She didn't look at him, instead plucking at a wayward stitch. "You left these behind in your pretend haste to get away. Not that I mind—in faith, I am glad that you have given up fighting. Your art was suffering so."

Kylo resisted the urge to snort, dipping his head forward, feeling his dark wavy hair brush past against his temples with a whisper. His mother said nothing more, slipping back into the silence as the man beside her did the same, both studying their tasks with the same casually intense focus, as if sewing and drawing could drown the screaming demons lurking behind the quiet house's court.

The mother and son knew that it was not for art that Kylo did not fight and Leia rejoiced in it—of all the Solos, it seemed as if they were the only two to fully understand the consequences of the feud. These were not dueling sessions in the garden with a tutor, where the son could fight and mother could cheer. The Solo name was at risk any time that its main heir stepped into a fray.

His father considered him a coward, and even as his lip curled slightly at the thought, the young man couldn't exactly disagree, flipping the book in his lap open, the blank parchment creamy white and barren, save for a few pages. His eyes fell on the sketch he had been trying to negotiate with earlier before the alarm went up of the fight. He sighed at it now, wondering whether to rip it out or to try and improve it.

He wished that he was talented enough to draw from his mind, a lament that resounded as he looked down at his handiwork, round eyes looking up from a girl's slightly squared face, her lips set in a smile that could only be mischievous and warm. Kylo was much more used to employing models to pose for him, but he had sworn off it since meeting her. He cautiously lifted the few pages beneath the one he was working on, and another woman looked back at him, her face all angles and narrowed eyes and haughty lips.

Lady Bazine was certainly no one that his mother wanted him to be courting, and not just because she was distantly related to the Kenobis. No, this woman was a harpy—cross and mean and cruel in her barbs. But she was a beauty, her pouting lips soft and her cheekbones defined, and Kylo hadn't resisted the urge to draw her when she offered to pose for him, her vanity so clear in her thin smile. His heart twisted in his chest with a whine, and he wasn't sure if it was because she had rejected him after he had finished her portrait, or if she had laughed at him when he had attempted to plead his case for her hand. For the moment, he decided both, but still, he couldn't find the slight strength to rip the pages from his sketchbook.

Instead, he turned back to his dilemma, his subject's hair now blooming dark under the charcoal wedged tightly between his fingers. He knew that he should draw her hair up, hide it under a headdress, maybe, or a hat, but it didn't seem right for this girl. With a few quick strokes, tresses fanned out against the drawn girl's collarbone, a few stray strands curling at her cheeks, which he decided were blushing. He sat back again to look, a small smile tugging at the corner of his downturned mouth as the maid peacefully looked up at him as if patiently waiting for a story or a gift.

Though she was but a drawing, Kylo imagined that she had wit to her and a bit of belief in romance. She wouldn't laugh at any suggested plans to ride off and away from his violent family, but instead perhaps quirk an eyebrow and ask if they'd be riding away on two horses or in a carriage—something sensible, something that he wouldn't have thought of. He felt himself relax in this imaginary girl's grin, and he wondered if such a girl existed and looked as pretty as his fantasies.

"What are you drawing, darling one?" Leia's voice was soft in her son's ears, and he seemed to stir as if from a trance, his brow finally smooth after a minute or two of being furrowed.

"Just the most beautiful girl in the world." She wasn't sure if he was being sarcastic, his voice low, his mind occupied as she set her sewing aside, reaching for the book.

"May I?" He didn't resist, merely adjusting the book and flipping a page before handing it to her. The aging woman chuckled as she glanced down at the purported drawing of the most beautiful girl and her face stared back as if a mirror was set in the book, not simple parchment.

"You little knave." There was her hand on his face, slightly pinching his cheeks as he bit back a chuckle. He knew that she was more than well aware of his slight switch, but she didn't mind, her mother's heart looking over anything wrong her son did in favor of focusing on the good. Marrying into a family with such a tangled and tarnished history prompted such forgiving natures, and for that, Kylo was thankful for his mother. There was that quiet smile that he offered to her, and she returned it, patting his face proudly.

The contentment in the moment evaporated in an instant as there was a distant shout, a chorus of whinnying horses stamping their way into the courtyard. "Oh, Kylo! Kylo, where are you, villain?"

Leia chuckled as her son pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering in good but dark humor, "Of course, the loudmouths that we call cousins survived the day." He glanced back at the mirthful face beside him, his own smile slightly crooked as he went on. "You know that they have noted my absence, and unlike my father, who doesn't notice if I race in to fight or if I stay behind, these knaves follow even my shadow when it walks."

"Why should we follow your shadow when it stays always in one place?" The mouth that tossed this wit off was grinning, Poe's eyes mischievous and bright as he ascended the stairs, gazing at his longest friend, Finn following close behind.

"You smell of shit and not blood." Leia grimaced for a second at Kylo's vulgarity but still allowed a sigh of relief as she stood up to greet the young men who came forward to bow to her now. Even as they accepted the greetings the lady pressed to their cheeks, Finn and Poe excited eyes didn't move away from Kylo's face.

"No wounded on either side, fortunately. However, our pride was scratched, especially when that Kenobi wench pushed our man Dameron into a manure pile." Poe wrinkled his nose at Finn's glee, but then that smile was back, cheeks flushed from mirth and from the fight, shrugging it off.

Leia hummed at the news as she gathered her sewing things up. "I should see how our lord is feeling now. He's returned, yes?"

"Aye, my lady. He's preparing to visit the prince soon, though." There was a slight crinkle to the lady's nose as she passed Poe, her face struggling to remain smooth and gracious even with the smell.

"Thank you, your grace. Perhaps when you finish telling Kylo about that skirmish today, you could freshen up here. You only need ask." Without waiting for his response, she swept away, leaving the young royal abashed and his two friends smirking at him.

"What started the fight this morning?" The Solo heir sat again, plucking up his sketch book as he waited for the answer, taking the slow moment to take the charcoal back in hand and return to the mystery girl's portrait, smoothing a necklace onto the page carefully. The question itself was routine enough, and by this time, his friends' reluctant stammering at first was part of the routine as well. Today, they didn't dawdle as usual—with a grimace and a cough, Finn answered.

"It would seem that the Kenobi wench—Phasma, you remember—thought Poe and I were trying to infringe on her kinswoman's honor, and so attempted to defend it." The swarthy man saw Kylo's eyebrows raise in interest and with a labored sigh, he elaborated: "Not Bazine, if that's what you think. Someone very different. Anyways, no matter—what matters is that we have a letter for you."

"Who from?" Poe sighed, brow furrowing as the sketching noble didn't look up, obviously disinterested at the lack of Bazine in their narrative. Love made Kylo fickle and almost an annoying conversation partner, which was a pity—they had been missing his wit.

"The girl did not say her name—only that she wished for us to take a letter and token of her love to you." Poe glanced at Finn, nodding at him as he pulled out the letter and the brooch, holding them aloft, waiting for Kylo to swipe it out of his hand like an eager school boy. Instead, he continued sketching, muttering to the two:

"Well, it must have been before you were pushed into shit—I doubt any lady would approach someone smelling as rank, even if their love was pressing." Finn bit back an infuriated sigh, grabbing the letter and jewelry from Poe's grasp and tossing them into Kylo's lap.

"Yes, but a serving woman wouldn't care for the smell. She didn't say who her mistress was—for all you know, it could be your precious Bazine who—" The name was all it took for the noble to pounce, tearing open the letter desperately as his friends exchanged a glance, amused and yet exasperated.

He read the lines at a maddening pace, his eyes slipping across the page as if it were gospel, as if it was his salvation. Kylo bit back a chuckle as Poe's voice broke through his slight reverie, his voice almost a whine in his curiosity. "Are you going to tell us what the letter says, or must we wait until you have finished, my lord?"

He paused for a moment, feeling his friends almost tense, as if he was about to deny the request. Instead, he flattened the letter out so he could better read it. If he was still a teenager, he would have attempted to read it in high style, pompous for comedic effect. But he was just a bit too old for that now, his twenty-sixth birthday having passed just this winter, and so instead, he read it quietly, just above a murmur:

 _"To my dear heart and lord—please forgive my boldness, but I cannot deny the truth to myself or to you. I love you, deeply, wholly, completely, and it hurts me that you have never noticed me before. I have heard, from my maids and friends alike, that you love my cousin."_ Kylo paused, his brow furrowing with disappointment. "It's not from Bazine."

"Oh, for the love of the virgin, please get on with it," Poe groaned. "She's already kinder than the Lady Netal. For this poor girl's sake, read on." There was a frown, but Kylo acquiesced with a shake of his head.

 _"While the news does sting, I assure you that it does not sway my heart from you. Perhaps it makes my longing all the worse. Your face comes to me in my dreams as if Eros begs me to always think of you. Often, I ask my cousin about you, but her words do you no justice, my lord. She lacks the wit, the language and the love that I have on the same subject of conversation (which, of course, is you)."_ There was a chuckle from Finn, and Poe had to sweep a hand over his mouth to hide a grin as the reader's head jerked up with a glare.

"What is so funny?" He demanded, suddenly defensive of the writer's words, the paper slightly crumpling under his grip. True, he didn't quite like her words—they were harsh on his beloved, and yet they warmed him. At least someone wondered after him, and to express that so sweetly and with such a slight barb made him think that perhaps this silly maid had defended him on occasion to her cousin. It thrilled him somehow, and to hear laughter at the expense of her words made his jaw tighten, his lips pulling up into a scowl.

"Nothing. This maid seems to see her cousin very clearly. What was it that she said: Bazine 'lacks the wit'? Indeed, she does. At least this loving maid has picked up a book more than she has a mirror." If Finn had expected an outburst, for his cousin to storm off in a huff while casting the letter aside, it didn't come. Instead, Kylo considered the letter again, eyes scanning the words as he tried to find his place.

 _"If it so pleases my lord, please come tonight to my family's house. We needn't dance or even talk—my heart will be content with knowing you read my letter and know my affections. I will even bear the pain that may come if you only come to bask in my cousin's presence, because at least I, in turn, can bask in your smile. (Though, if I must be honest, I hope that you come to see that she is nothing but a_ crow _who prefers to squawk instead of sing. But I realize it is a futile wish.) You needn't send a man to announce your arrival—perhaps it is better if you don't so that I can pretend that you are in attendance even if you choose to ignore me instead."_

 _"Just please know, sir, that you have a devoted maid who only wishes for your love and will make do with any feeling you have for me. I remain, my lord, your humble and loving servant."_ Kylo's thumb brushed over her initials gingerly, as if he expected to two little letters to sear his hand, to give him some ghostly semblance of a kiss. His voice was soft as he brushed over the last few words. _"All my love—R.K."_

"She must be a Kenobi." Poe feigned a disappointed sigh, glancing at the distracted man as he smoothed his fingers over the brooch now, examining it carefully. "Even if you merely wanted to go and see the Lady Netal and not her lovesick cousin, it would be too dangerous to even think of slipping into a place we are so unwelcomed in."

"If you don't wish to go, I am just fine with going on my own." Kylo paid no attention to the shocked faces of his friends, holding the brooch aloft to see it catch the light, bringing it back down to rest on his knee as he returned to his sketchbook, glancing at the portrait of his fantasy's girl. He wondered where the writer would wear it, where he should draw it on her placeholder. He lifted his eyes to his friends, a half smile sloping cheekily on his face.

"Don't look at me like that. You have insisted that I divest my attention from Bazine since she spurned me. Think of this as following your suggestions. Besides, I'd like to see the little chit who called Bazine a crow. I'm curious." There was that slow and easy smile on Kylo's face that Finn had not seen in some time as he glanced at the brooch again and then back down at his drawing.

"What time should we depart for the party then, cousin?" Finn could hear the doubt in his voice as he asked, but he couldn't help himself. Gone was the man who sulked for weeks on end, who stowed his heart away in his sketchbook or his rare tears. Now he brightened, shutting away his drawings with a clap.

"A little bit after dusk, I warrant. Can't keep our lovesick girl waiting."

Poe was of no use right now, muttering to himself that he had called Bazine a cow before but Kylo hadn't seen the need to sneak into his house to ask him about it. If the Solo heir heard any of it, he didn't let on, instead standing and clapping his hands on his friends' shoulders.

"Come on- after your fight this morning, it probably wouldn't hurt us any if we cleaned up." He sniffed and shuddered jokingly, turning to Poe with a smirk. "Especially you, your grace."

There was a change to be had today-Kylo could feel it as he slipped back into silence, his friends hotly debating disguises now, muttering between each other and eyeing him almost sadly. He said nothing, the brooch in his clenched fix feeling as if it would sear him, even though it was cold to the touch.


	4. Chapter 4

Grandfather said he'd be back as quickly as possible, that his visitor wouldn't be along until a little before the night's party, but the afternoon sun was still peeking through the window and the lord had not returned yet. The man who sat across from her seemed mostly unperturbed, but the girl knew that he was probably struggling to keep his face smooth, a wrinkle creasing his forehead anyway. There was no denying the reason why he was here, even if the young nobleman had barely said more than his name to her, her smile strained as she received him. So they sat now, in near still perfection, and Rey wondered, not for the first time, if this would be a scene that a painting master would want to paint before giving up, the emotions not right for an otherwise pretty picture.

The silence was stiff between them, the occasional sniffle or sigh disturbing it like a ripple in a pond, before settling again. Rey could feel the man's eyes on her, but she didn't dare look up, more absorbed now in her sewing than she ever had been—or would be—in her life. The lord sitting across from her didn't see how sharply she was stabbing the cloth with her needle, even as he cleared his throat, possibly out of necessity, more likely to get her attention.

"My lady, perhaps you could show me the gardens? Lord Kenobi mentioned that you enjoyed sitting among its flowers with good company. Perhaps we can entertain ourselves there while we wait for his return." Rey couldn't help but glance up, all but biting her tongue to keep herself from telling Count Hux that when she spoke of good company, she either meant her ladies or a book, that he wasn't even decent company while indoors. Instead, she smiled, pretending to be shy as she glanced down at her embroidery again.

"I'm sure my grandfather will be back soon, your grace. I would hate to trouble him with finding us when your business is urgent enough to warrant a visit and with his birthday feast in a few hours' time." Hux mumbled in resignation, his fingers drumming against the small table beside him, obviously put off at her response. She didn't particularly care about him being put off, though.

When Rey was younger, she dreamed of princes and of marriage. Her nurse, Maz, always told the story of how, as a toddler, she would steal white sheets from the laundress's basket and hold her own wedding procession, the sheet trailing behind like a veil. At that time, there was no groom in sight, but she thought of that aspect more and more as she grew.

By the time she had become a woman (Maz's declaration, not hers), she had dreamed of her future betrothed. Then, and even still now, she pictured him with dark hair and mysterious eyes, someone tall and sturdy who gave out smiles and jokes as gifts instead of brooches and furs. She thought of someone who saw her as an equal, not a pretty little doll or a good motherly type. She wanted to love and be loved, to find another soul to add to her happiness, to make her own.

Phasma had always called her silly for such thoughts. When Rey was fifteen and the suitors first started coming, her cousin had scoffed at her oft-repeated romantic notions, saying, "You know our lord doesn't care about looks or what you like. He will marry you off to whoever thinks you're pretty and is willing to pay for your beauty."

"I'm not being sold as if I was a handful of flowers, cousin—I'm sure grandfather will find someone who is gentle and brave _and_ handsome for me. Such men do exist, even if you think they're just as fantastical as dragons and fairies."

This conversation was repeated year after year, and this year, Phasma had sighed, shaking her head almost forlornly at her younger cousin. "There isn't time for romantic notions and seeing if something beyond the contents of your money-purses match, Rey. Love is a foolish thing to wish for. Look on our cousin Bazine—she only hopes for the richest man. She spurns any man who tries to woo her for her love if they don't have the fortune to provide."

"Her looks are also turning sourer than a rotting apple, Phasma. If she did love her face as much as her habits say that she does, she'd soften her heart a little more. Hope keeps us young." Phasma didn't respond to that, turning away with the shake of a head. When she did speak, her voice was quiet, her manner almost sad.

"Love or not, marriage will be coming soon, Rey. Grandfather has tried to find you someone at least pretty to look at. Accept this suitor, and be done with this talk of love."

She hadn't agreed then to accept him, whoever this suitor was. Glancing across the space towards Hux, Rey felt her heart shrink back a little, even as she tried to coax it away from disappointment. The count wasn't ugly, and she knew that she should be thankful for that alone, that her grandfather wasn't trying to marry her off to some old, smelly duke. But he certainly wasn't like the man in her dreams. Instead of dark curls, Hux's hair was red, reminding her a little of an apple, maybe more so of an orange, especially when caught in the light. Instead of dark brown eyes, the eyes that considered her now were green, and there was this curious glint to them that reminded her of the cold polished glass of her mirror.

No, this was not the man she was to fall in love with. Marry, perhaps—she knew better than to resist that notion, having seen other noble ladies turned out onto the street for not agreeing to their arranged matches. _Maybe I should become a nun and save myself from all this trouble._ Rey pursed her lips with thought, glancing up again as Hux opened his mouth, the light in his eyes now brighter. She wondered if he intended to say something cruel, if he was impatient, but instead, he stood merely to bow, the Lord Kenobi sweeping into the room with a red face and a nervous twitch about his lips.

"My lord," Rey murmured as she too stood, dipping into a curtsey, her needle and cloth still clutched tightly in hand. She accepted the kiss that her grandfather pressed to her cheek, dipping into another curtsey at his absentminded dismissal, more than a little grateful that he was already turning to the count as she made her exit, tempted to drop her embroidery in the hallway. She was sick of holding it.

Rose and Jessika were waiting just a bit further down the corridor—close enough to be called, far enough for discretion. Rey grimaced at them as she strode past, passing Jessika the stitching before pulling at her hair, the elaborate style falling with a quick tug. She could hear Rose sigh, could feel the hesitation in the air following her as they strode quickly to Rey's bedroom.

"I didn't know such a dull man could exist," The noblewoman muttered as she yanked the door open, all but ushering her serving maids—and best friends—into the grand room. With a huff, she collapsed on the bed, sourly looking past the bed curtains to the balcony's terrace just outside. "He's supposedly the most promising, and he can't even hold a conversation."

"Did you give him the chance at a conversation?" Rose chided, beckoning her up with a sigh, Jessika bringing a richer, fresh dress from the closet, the white sleeves and bodice bright against the dark blue. "I wish you had kept your hair up—it'll be such a pain to do again."

"At least your needlework is improving," Jessika commented wryly, counting the stitches. "Lady Jyn will be pleased when she checks next week. Perhaps there is something about old maids that makes them good at the needle—are you trying to prove a theory, my lady?"

Rey snorted in response, pushing herself up and holding her arms aloft to help Rose get the dress off. "We both knew why he was there, so it wasn't as if we could dance around the subject tactfully. At least, at balls, you can chat with a man without pretenses and then find out later that he was a suitor."

"Rey, darling, you're at the age where every man you talk to is a possible suitor." Jessika laughed at the dark look that crossed the girl's face as her dress was lifted up and off. The maid's voice dropped though, speaking lowly, "However, I did hear that your grandfather plans to settle on the count, seeing that you're close enough in age to him, and the dowry will be large."

"Oh _wonderful,"_ Rey mused sullenly, her gaze still on the balcony, wondering if it'd be too ludicrous to bolt now, if she could clear feasibly make her escape off the balcony, persuade Rose and Jessika to swear to not say a word until she had reached the nearest convent. Yet she knew, as she was laced into her dress, Rose carefully pinning her hair away from her face but still down around her shoulders, that such a feat would be unmanageable at best, scandalous at worst.

"Do you suppose I could sneak one of you into my place on my wedding day? I'm almost sure that it could work, as long as a wedding is held." Jessika snorted at that as she leaned in, pinching Rey's cheeks lightly to pinken them. In the distance, the sky was beginning to darken and they could hear various shouted greetings and the whinnying of horses.

"Only if you find a lover at tonight's dance, as mistress Maz would have both mine and Rose's heads if we let you run away a single maid." Jessika winked at her lady, hearing her fellow servant huff next to her, adding: "Besides, some of us are still hoping for loves of our own. Once you have a husband and a crop of new servants, we'll need to seek new employment or a family of our own."

"Aye, but you have more time than I do." Rey giggled and shrieked as Rose playfully lunged at her, darting away from her serving woman by ducking behind one of the bedposts. Jessika's laughter joined in tandem, the girls' joyous sound only faltering at the knock on the door. "Come in," Rey called, glancing behind her as Jess and Rose straightened up now, standing behind her dutifully, as if they were not just playing and teasing, as if they actually were women instead of several years past childhood.

Rey sighed at the sight of her grandfather, his brow smoother than it was when she saw him earlier, though she could see the worry in his eyes. She listened to her and her servants' skirts brush against the floor as they curtsied, Lord Kenobi patting Rey's cheek fondly as she straightened up again. "I wanted to give you this before the feast—Phasma told me that she hadn't enough time this morning to find one for you, so I took a moment on my trip back from the prince's to find a pretty one for you."

The mask that he held out to her to take was a bright silver, gold leaf delicately adorning it so that she'd catch the candle and torchlight just so. Still, Rey hesitated in accepting it, feeling as if there were more strings attached than the ones that would keep the pretty thing close to her cheeks.

"How fares Lord Hux?" She asked instead, meekly taking the mask from her grandfather's hands, keeping her eyes trained on the ornament, as if she feared the look in his eyes at her question. There was a pause, and then a sigh, and she glanced up quickly to see the sad, small smile of her grandfather.

"That all depends on how you like him, dear. I'm sure you know of his intentions," he murmured, watching her nod before he continued. "But it's no matter what his intentions are if you do not find him agreeable, though his uncle, Count Snoke, has offered a large dowry and a promise to partner with our merchants. Besides, is he not handsome, Count Hux? I've heard women describe him as a flower or the sun. As I know it, he is the only man in all the city who is handsome enough for you—and I know how you longed for someone good."

Rey kept her lips tightly pinched, hoping her grandfather would think she was just reddening them instead of forcing herself to be silent. It was clear why she should want the match—for the good of the family, their business, even her future children. And yet, there was still something that kept her from mindlessly agreeing to the match, be it a premonition or the memory of how cold the count's eyes had glinted in the time she sat across from him. She smiled wanly now, bowing her head.

"Aye, my lord. For you, I shall look to like, and if I am so moved, I hope that I find a love in him. Until then, I shall only do whatever it takes to please you." There was her grandfather's palm on her cheek again, his happy declaration, and Rey glanced down at the mask in her hand again, hoping that she could hide behind it all night and make some excuse in the morning. Perhaps she wouldn't see the count, or perhaps she could beg off with that old belief that true lovers recognize each other, mask or no.

Still, she stood still as she raised the mask to her face, as Rose's fingers deftly tied the strings, and as she was lead—perhaps like a bride, perhaps like a sacrifice—to the night and the festivities that laid waiting for her to enjoy. She didn't think of the letter that she wrote earlier, nor if the mystery man and his friends would come to play. For the moment, she only focused on how the lights bounced off her mask and how her life may change thereafter. If a tear slid down her cheek at the thought, no one paid it any mind. To the eyes of guests, it was just another sparkle on the face of Lord Kenobi's crown jewel.


End file.
